Menu

the weather boy’s lament

there is a storm in my mind i can’t quell,
though with chipped, tearing fingers i have tried.
and as a result, i have ravaged them down to a mess of mangled seams,
a mess that resigns itself with bumbling haste into its nether, earthy grave
ever breathing ghosts of supplication into the chasmic bay of an ever-condemning night
a night stippled with star-eyes trenchantly glaring, each pointedly huddled away from my scrabbling, mortal scopes,
each pompously cradled in overhead navy nooks of lofty assurance.

–

there is a storm in my mind i can’t smother,
though with ragged, lurching lungs i have tried.
nursed a kingdom of faux-cries that fall wheezingly short of clarion caliber, each one thawing unloved and in a sorrowful, wailing hurry, desperate to be rid of their shriveling scorned selves.why ever were we made, come the lamentations, ridden with blood and silver whipped into a demented, roiling rouxand why was i

–

there is a storm in my mind i can’t tame,
though a whip was accorded to me, in days distantly bygone
i held it and let my blood surge loose, left to conspire with the tenebrous voice of my infant ire
let my blood unearth a wicked calling, engorge a vile commission from an audience of devils with voracious glee
but alas, the rapacious fall farthest, are bidden to kiss and couple wretchedly with the deepest abyss.
…. i withdrew my whip and stepped duly back
into the heart of the storm in my mind.